Trial and Error
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Holmes is too curious for his own good. Warning: character death.


Warning: Character Death

A/N: This wasn't written with a specific Holmes 'verse in mind, so imagine whichever Victorian versions of the characters suit you.

Written for the shkinkmeme prompt:

_Holmes gets turned into a girl. Watson gets him pregnant._

_Holmes then loses the baby, and in the process of returning to his male form, he dies._

_Make it angsty, please._

* * *

_Trial and Error_

Watson knew nothing good would come of it, but Holmes insisted on proceeding. For the sake of science.

It started with a case. It always did. This time, it wasn't the actual crimes that drew Holmes' attention -they were simple robberies and burglaries- but rather the suspect. Evan Mackenzie was a well-known thief, but despite several witnesses describing his features almost exactly, the Yard could not arrest him. The thief the witnesses described was a woman, and a rather busty one at that.

When reading about it in the papers, Watson suggested that he was merely wearing feminine clothing to throw off the authorities, and Holmes was inclined to agree. Until one witness asserted he'd had intimate relations with the woman, then woke to find his house burgled.

That was when Lestrade appeared on their doorstep with an entreaty that Holmes shed some light on the bewildering puzzle. They had already determined Mackenzie had no living relatives, much less a female relative with an identical scar along the jawline. Holmes made his jibes about the work of the Yard but had to concede it was an interesting case.

Holmes set out in a disguise, and in his absence Watson tried to think of a medical explanation for this phenomenon. Holmes had already assured him that the man Mackenzie was indeed a man, at least above the waist, for he had boxed him once. Watson knew that women had their ways of enhancing their assets, but it did not seem possible for such an artifice to survive the close examination of a man's attentions in bed, not to mention the obvious differences between the sexes below the waist. It was quite a conundrum.

Three days after setting out, Holmes burst into the sitting room. "Watson!" he cried, pulling off his muffler and discarding it over the back of the settee. "I find myself in need of a medical opinion," he said, and handed Watson two small glass vials filled with liquid, one a pale yellow and the other faintly green. "What do you make of these?" He sat in his armchair opposite Watson and started filling his pipe.

Watson shook them slightly, examining them carefully. "I haven't the faintest idea," he said finally. "There isn't any medicine I know of that would look like this."

"What about this?" Holmes pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and surrendered it to the doctor, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "I believe these are the formulas for those solutions."

Watson read it carefully, squinting at the crabbed handwriting required to fit everything on the scrap. "This reads more like magic than medicine."

"And what if I told you I have every reason to believe that the contents of those vials have enabled our villain's spree of petty crime?"

Watson gaped at him. "You can't be serious!"

"I am most serious. I followed Mackenzie to his room, watched him go inside and, a while later, emerge as the woman our witnesses have described. While he was absent, I gained entry to the room, finding a chemical apparatus not unlike my own, in the midst of distilling the green liquid. A number of vials such as these were lined up on a table, with the recipe in the midst of them."

He puffed on his pipe for a moment, allowing Watson time to process what he was saying. "There was nothing else remarkable about the room. I removed one of each of the vials and copied the recipes. I heard Mackenzie return just as I finished, so I hid in a cupboard below the apparatus, leaving the door slightly open so I could observe. The woman entered, drank a vial of the green solution, and disrobed.

"I was, admittedly, quite astonished to find that Mackenzie had returned to his usual form by the time the dress was off and a pair of trousers was on in its place. He finished re-dressing, then departed again, at which point I took my leave."

Watson was speechless for many long moments; Holmes rose and poured brandy for them both, taking the vials back from Watson as he handed him the brandy. "But, Holmes . . . that is simply impossible. There is no conceivable way that a mere liquid could have such a profound effect on one's body!"

"So I would think, too, if I had not witnessed that very thing." Holmes sat back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the vials. "All that remains, then, is to try it myself."

"Absolutely not!" Watson said with vehemence. "I cannot allow you to take such a risk."

"Mackenzie remains unharmed from his numerous experiences," Holmes observed.

"You don't know that. There could be any number of things wrong with him that would only be evident through a thorough examination."

"Testing it is the only way of proving that Mackenzie is the perpetrator."

"Assuming it works the same way on you as it does on him. He might have some abnormality that this... potion is exaggerating. You have no way of knowing what it might do to you! Are his petty crimes really worth risking your life?"

Holmes set pipe and vials aside and rose, kneeling astride Watson's lap and taking Watson's shaking hands in his own. "I think you are rather overstating the matter, my dear Watson."

"I don't," Watson insisted. "You are far too willing to experiment on yourself, Holmes. What if something goes wrong? What if you can't change back? I don't want to lose you just because you had to sate your infernal curiosity."

Holmes rested his forehead against Watson's. "It will be all right, I promise."

"You can't promise that," Watson objected. "Why can't you take Lestrade to Mackenzie's room and stake it out again? If you can catch him looking like a woman, that proves it far better than you testing this unknown substance and expecting the authorities to take you at your word that it works. Unless, of course, you plan on parading in front of Lestrade and the Yard in whatever form it would give you."

Holmes snorted, then tried to reassure him. "I already have Lestrade watching the room, though it seems unlikely Mackenzie will transform himself again tonight. I also wish to discover the mechanism of how the transformation is possible, which is only possible by trying it, as well as attempt to distill the serum myself. I need to determine if we will need to be on the lookout for a rash of feminine-looking criminals."

"You could ask him how it works once you catch him," Watson pointed out. "And that should tell you if this is going to become popular with the criminal class."

Holmes chuckled and kissed him briefly. "You scintillate this evening, Watson. Would you trust the word of a known thief?"

"Is he known to be a liar?" Watson ventured, but knew Holmes had a point. Those who stole often lied to cover their tracks, and there would be no guarantee that Mackenzie would tell the truth about his most unique tool. Watson sighed and squeezed Holmes' hand. "When will you be going back out?"

"Not until tomorrow afternoon." He grinned and kissed Watson again, more thoroughly this time. "Come to bed, Watson?"

Watson smiled back. "Of course. But . . . don't do anything with that substance without me. If you insist upon trying it, I insist upon being there to intervene if something goes wrong."

"Certainly." Holmes kissed Watson's forehead and carefully extricated himself from the chair. "I wouldn't dream of being so foolish as to experiment thus without my Watson there to patch me up." He grinned and held out his hand to help Watson up.

Watson accepted it and dearly wished to tell Holmes he was being foolish to experiment on himself in the first place, but he was tired and didn't want to argue about it at the moment. The subject would come up again.

* * *

Mackenzie was successfully apprehended -in his female form- the next evening. Watson accompanied Holmes this time, and was able to see with his own eyes the chemical equipment and the multiple vials of mysterious liquid. He helped Holmes collect the vials to surrender to the Yard, and Holmes used Watson's notebook to make a better copy of the recipes, along with making a sketch of the apparatus.

At the Yard, gawkers lined the hallways as Mackenzie was escorted to a small room near the rear of the building. The Yard doctor and Lestrade were the only ones permitted to enter; Holmes stood next to the closed door to eavesdrop on the conversation while Watson shook his head with fond exasperation and leaned against the opposite wall. Midway through the examination, Lestrade stuck his head out and Holmes handed him one of the green vials.

When the trio emerged, Lestrade was visibly disturbed, the doctor was baffled, and Mackenzie was smug. He answered no questions about his crimes or these transformations. The Yard doctor stated for the record that Mackenzie could and did shift into the physical appearance of a woman using an unknown elixir, with no apparent lingering effects after reverting back to his original form. This declaration was sufficient for Lestrade to officially charge Mackenzie with the thefts, with the remainder of the vials stored as evidence.

It was late when Holmes and Watson finally returned to Baker Street. Holmes was eager to start assembling his supplies; Watson was tired and wanted to go to bed and he refused to do so without Holmes. Watson prevailed, though coercive means may have been involved.

Predictably, Holmes set to work as soon as he rose the next morning. It took very little effort to put the apparatus together according to his sketch; more challenging was obtaining the ingredients, for it used a few obscure chemicals that required time and careful inquiry to locate a supplier. Said supplier would not admit whether Mackenzie was a purchaser, but Holmes recognized the labels on the bottles, having seen one on Mackenzie's workbench, and he was satisfied. Using the same supplier would help a great deal in his attempt to duplicate the results.

A fortnight after Mackenzie was arrested, Holmes began distilling the first of the two solutions. "I still don't think this is necessary," Watson commented from his armchair as he read the paper.

"Your objection is duly noted," Holmes said, concentrating as he mixed and stirred, turning up the burner and watching the mixture bubble and froth. He left it to sit for a while as per the instructions, and took up residence in his armchair. "Don't worry, Watson. You have at least a week before I will start the real experimentation."

Watson flicked the corner of the paper down to give him an exasperated look, then straightened the paper again and acted like he wasn't going to ask. Because he wasn't. Oh, fine . . . "Why a week, Holmes?" he asked, resigned.

Holmes chuckled and puffed on his pipe. "Both solutions require several days to brew properly. As I have no intention of trying Mackenzie's solutions until I compare their color and character with my own results, it will be at least a week until the testing can begin."

"I'll look forward to it," Watson said dryly.

* * *

The first solution matched Mackenzie's perfectly, despite brewing somewhat longer than called for; they were summoned for a case that turned out to be quite minor but caused Holmes to be away when he should have been completing the painstaking task. Watson was dubious about the wisdom of moving forward with a solution not precisely made according to the directions and accused Holmes of being sloppy in his eagerness to start testing.

They argued, but Holmes kept the first batch and went on to start the second solution anyway. Watson didn't speak to Holmes for a day and a half afterward, and seriously considered dumping the contents of that flask out the window. Holmes apparently suspected this reaction and hid the flask.

Holmes made up to Watson with tickets to the opera, and for a little while they could both pretend that nothing was wrong between them, returning to the flat quite late but not going to sleep until much later. That evening and night were idyllic compared to the arguments they'd been having over 'that infernal potion,' as Watson called it. They had been arguing more over this one experiment than ever before; even the cocaine hadn't caused such a rift between them. But the cocaine was occasional, while this . . . this had taken over Holmes' mind.

Watson found himself wishing Holmes were indulging in cocaine instead.

The trials commenced on a rainy Sunday morning. When Mrs. Hudson came up with breakfast, Holmes gave her strict instruction that they were not to be disturbed, and if anyone asked for him, he was out. She nodded, glancing inquisitively at Doctor Watson, who shrugged and shook his head: iDon't ask/i. She didn't.

Holmes ate little, then flitted between his chemical table and where Watson sat eating his breakfast, wondering aloud what was taking him so long to eat. In truth, Watson was anxious and the food stuck in his throat, though he tried to project an air of normalcy. Finally he threw down his napkin. "I still think this is a tremendously terrible idea."

Holmes raised an eyebrow with an air of amusement. "So now it's 'tremendously terrible'? Before it was 'extremely misguided,' 'unwise,' and, my personal favorite, 'an experiment worthy of Lestrade's intelligence.' Have you any other poetic phrases, or am I free to begin?"

Watson glared at him, but knew Holmes would not be swayed. "Don't expect me to be sympathetic when something goes wrong," he said with resignation, fetching his bag from its spot next to the door and setting it next to his armchair.

Holmes picked up the vial of yellow liquid and hesitated a moment, then drank it in one gulp. He cast himself in his own armchair, and they waited for something to happen.

"Tell me how you feel," Watson demanded, seeing Holmes squirm a bit in his chair.

"It is . . . curious. Warm. There is a . . . prickling." Holmes had his eyes closed, focusing his attention fully inward.

"How long might it take?"

"I am uncertain. I did not witness this half of the procedure, you may remember."

Unable to sit still any longer, Watson stood at Holmes' side and repeatedly checked his pulse, respiration (both elevated slightly, but not worryingly so), and temperature (normal). Minutes dragged by without any apparent change, though Watson had to admit the most dramatic changes wouldn't be visible while Holmes remained clothed. It had been at least five minutes when Watson noticed Holmes' face had changed. Not dramatically, but the skin seemed smoother and his jaw seemed subtly softer somehow.

"Holmes," he said breathlessly, stroking the soft cheek in wonder.

Holmes' eyes fluttered open again, and he grinned. "Shall we . . . oh, my," he said, clearing his throat a few times. His voice had slightly shifted higher. "How intriguing."

Watson shifted uncomfortably; Holmes' modified voice was sending shivers down his spine, and not the bad kind of shivers. "Take off your clothes and lie on the settee," he demanded and turned to pick up his bag.

"Why, Watson! How did you know I would want to test that, too?" Holmes teased as he stood.

Watson stopped for a moment with his back to Holmes, swallowing with difficulty as he realized what Holmes was proposing. "I want to see what else it has done to you," he retorted when he thought he could keep his voice even.

"Ah, yes, of course." Unbuttoning his shirt, he looked down at himself, feeling his chest with curious fingers. "I can't say I'm sorry I'm not as . . . amply supplied as Mackenzie was."

Indeed, Holmes' new breasts were quite small, suitably fitting one so slender. Watson eyed him critically. "Stop touching yourself," he scolded, then put his hands where Holmes' had been. "You would look quite out of balance with breasts that large," he commented. "As it is, you could probably wear your normal clothing, and no one seeing you would suspect a thing." He spied the calculating look in Holmes' eyes and rushed to add, "But do not think that I will let you out of my sight when you're like this."

"Splendid, Watson! We can take a walk together, then." He was grinning wickedly.

"Take the rest off," Watson directed, and watched as Holmes did just that. He noted -and appreciated- the new, gentle curve from narrow waist outward to hips and thighs. "You are a reasonably attractive woman, Holmes. A bit tall, though."

"Only reasonably attractive?" Holmes asked with mock hurt, exploring himself with his fingers.

Watson pushed him toward the settee. "Let me do that, I'm the doctor." Holmes stretched himself out on the settee with a smirk that Watson tried desperately to ignore. He focused instead on the most drastic change wrought by the potion. Carefully stroking and probing with two fingers, Watson could only conclude that Holmes was, at least externally, a woman.

A devious thought occurred to him, and he dragged a fingernail over the small nub that lay protected by a hood of skin; Holmes gasped and clutched at the cushions. Watson shifted his hand, using his thumb to tease the nub while his paired fingers slid inside the new passage, finding no resistance, only slickness and warmth. Holmes whimpered, then raised his head to look at Watson. "What are you doing?"

"I thought you said you wanted to test this part, too," Watson said blandly. "You did want to learn how it felt to be a woman having sex, yes?"

"Yes, but-" Watson pressed down with his thumb and Holmes had to stop to gasp for breath. "I would rather test that with you, not your fingers."

"Ah. In that case, I believe I can oblige you," Watson assured him, hurriedly rising and shucking off his trousers and underlinens as quickly as possible. He was on top of and inside Holmes in less time than it takes to say it, and they both groaned. Watson kissed Holmes and whispered, "I still think this entire experiment is a bad idea."

"There's no help for that now," Holmes choked out as Watson began to thrust into him.

There was no more conversation for some minutes.

"That was . . . most enlightening," Holmes said, still breathing heavily.

Watson, slumped atop him, chuckled. "Is that all you have to say?"

"For now. I would require at least one more demonstration before I can draw any real conclusions."

Watson propped himself up on his elbows. "You are incorrigible. Do we change you back now?"

"No, not yet. I wish to spend a few hours thus, to fully appreciate this new form."

"I should have guessed," Watson grumbled as he climbed off Holmes.

"Perhaps we could take that walk?"

* * *

They did take a walk, Watson dearly hoping that no one would notice anything different about Holmes, while Holmes seemed to be oblivious to Watson's unease and trotted along quite happily. As soon as they had closed the sitting room door, Holmes was feverishly kissing Watson and pressing against him as if trying to push him through the door. Watson was surprised but not unwilling; he, and evidently Holmes too, had been aroused by walking nonchalantly around London with Holmes so changed under his clothing.

When they had exhausted themselves again, Watson strongly suggested that Holmes change himself back, lest the shift become permanent. "Unless you want to be a woman for the rest of your life?"

"I don't know, it doesn't seem that bad," Holmes said nonchalantly.

Watson snorted. "You haven't dressed as a woman, or been seen by other people as a woman, or experienced a woman's menstrual cycle. You don't have a very accurate perception at the moment, old boy."

"That is true," Holmes admitted, and took the reversal solution without further objection.

Later that evening, Holmes suggested that he try his distillations, but Watson wasn't keen on the idea. "Wait until tomorrow, Holmes, and then if anything goes wrong, we'll have all day to correct it."

"You have a point, Watson. Tomorrow it is."

Watson was thoroughly relieved; now if only he could postpone it indefinitely! Despite this first successful use of the potions, he had a very bad feeling about the whole proceeding. He tried to say so, but the words wouldn't come out right. Holmes kissed him quiet, then dragged him off to the bedroom so he could be at the receiving end of Holmes' affections.

Holmes quickly fell asleep, but Watson remained awake, clinging to Holmes and wishing the day would never dawn.

Watson slept late and, upon waking, panicked for a moment that Holmes might have gone ahead without him. But then he heard Holmes mumbling to himself over something, and realized his voice was its normal pitch. Holmes had kept his promise.

He dawdled in getting dressed, to the point that Holmes called impatiently, "Are you ever going to come out?"

"I'm tired," he retorted, but emerged. His breakfast was on the table and Holmes was in his armchair, restlessly plucking on his violin. Before Holmes could speak, he held up a hand to stop him. "Not until after I eat."

"If you insist."

"I do." So he sat and ate, reading the morning papers. Holmes refilled his pipe and stood at the window, meditatively watching the passersby. Watson was nearly finished with his breakfast when he felt Holmes' hands on his shoulders, gently kneading them. He sighed.

"You're still worried."

"Yes. Is there anything I can say or do to convince you to stop now?" Holmes' hands stopped moving, and Watson rolled his eyes. "Not that, you insufferable man."

Holmes chuckled, and his hands resumed their motion. "Do you really have so little faith in my chemical work?"

"No, not generally. It's just . . . I am uncomfortable with the idea of casually putting your body through such a thing. It is unnecessary and possibly dangerous."

Holmes bent and pressed a kiss just behind Watson's ear. "All will be well," he murmured.

Watson stood and held Holmes tightly against him for a few moments. "You're probably right," he said finally. "I'll feel quite foolish about this fretting if it goes as smoothly as yesterday."

"When, not if," Holmes corrected gently. "Are you ready?"

Watson kissed him. "As ready as I'll ever be."

They returned to their positions from the previous day, Holmes drank some of the yellow solution, and they waited. "How does it feel compared to yesterday?"

"The prickling is . . . somewhat sharper," Holmes said vaguely, nearly overwhelmed by the torrent of sensations. He didn't say so, but something felt different, something indefinable. It vexed him that he couldn't determine just what it was, much less how to put it into words.

When the rush of intensity abated, he opened his eyes and smiled at Watson, who was hovering over him anxiously. "There, you see? Just like yesterday."

"Not quite," Watson retorted. "Yesterday you didn't nearly lose consciousness. How are you feeling now?"

"Quite well, thank you," he said, though he did, perhaps, feel a bit faint. "Would you like me to take off my clothes?" He winked and watched Watson blush.

"Er, yes, but not for that. At least not right now," Watson stammered.

Holmes grinned and undressed, watching Watson fidget and gauging how long it would take for the good doctor to succumb to temptation. Five minutes or less, he concluded. He'd base his reputation on it. Though that raised an interesting question: was he still Sherlock Holmes while his body was female? His mind hadn't changed, so his preliminary conclusion was yes.

Watson knew Holmes was baiting him -how insatiable he could be!- but he was too relieved that Holmes was still well and in one piece to object. And the settee wasn't a half-bad place to have sex. As long as the door was locked.

* * *

Holmes again passed a few hours in the female form before taking a dose of the reversal solution. Watson supposed he didn't mind Holmes as a woman -he still behaved the same, so the physical alteration made little difference the majority of the time- but he would be relieved to have him back to normal just so he wouldn't need to worry anymore.

"Watson, I don't think it's working."

"What do you mean it's not working?" Watson demanded, astonished that Holmes could sit there calmly smoking his pipe as he said such a thing.

"Simply that: nothing is happening. And I believe . . ." he felt around his chest for a moment, "ah, yes, they're still there."

"I told you something might go wrong," Watson said with a groan.

"Calm yourself, Watson, I'll simply take more," he said simply, striding to the table and taking a large swig from the flask. "That ought to do it."

It didn't. Consuming the rest of the flask over the course of the afternoon didn't effect any change, either. "I don't understand," he confessed finally after Mrs. Hudson had left with the tea tray. "The color matched, I followed the directions to the letter . . . it should have worked."

"I'm afraid I can't help you there," Watson said, opening a window to disperse some of the clouds of smoke Holmes was generating. "Do you have enough of the components to try again?"

He did, and he immediately started mixing another batch. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me like this for a few days, Watson," he said.

Watson knew this was Holmes' way of apologizing, and took it as such. "I think I can manage for that length of time. I was married, after all."

"Yes, of course." Holmes returned to the settee and resumed smoking. He needed to think.

* * *

Their sitting room was constantly in a haze of smoke as Holmes pondered each successive failed attempt to return to his former self. For five months the saga dragged on, until Watson was ready to throw up his hands and encourage Holmes to leave things as they were. He was almost used to Holmes' current body, and would rather have him as he was than risk something going drastically wrong in Holmes' ever more desperate attempts to solve this problem.

Very few cases drew Holmes' attention away from his dilemma. He and Watson did go out on a few during those months, and there was never any indication that anyone noticed Holmes wasn't quite himself.

As those days and months dragged by, Watson began to notice that Holmes wasn't quite himself even beyond the obvious. He was pale, he was tired, he nearly swooned on a couple of occasions -the most memorable occasion was during a case when he'd almost fainted upon rising after examining the ground for evidence- and he wasn't eating much.

Then again, all of those things were quite normal for someone who was constantly taxing his mental and physical endurance with an intractable problem. Especially when that person was Holmes.

When an attempt failed, Watson would coax Holmes away from the chemicals, out on a walk, out to dinner, to the concert hall. Then he would bring him home, lay him on the bed, and show him the pleasures unique to the female form. Holmes invariably slept late the next day and once he woke Watson would sit on his legs until he ate a proper meal. Only then did Watson permit him to start afresh.

When a new batch was steeping and Holmes was optimistic that he'd figured it out at last, he would finally respond to his waiting correspondence, quickly solving the small problems sent to him via letters and telegrams in the preceding week or three. He would dust off his violin and play for Watson, or kneel before Watson and take Watson's cock into his mouth -preferably while Watson was trying to do something else, like write- or take a long nap, invariably waking when Watson curled up with him.

When Holmes was no closer to a solution after five months, Watson encouraged him to take on a case or two, assuming that shifting his attention to something else would allow his mind to ruminate on this other issue and perhaps, just perhaps, find an avenue he hadn't yet tried. Holmes reluctantly agreed, and as if on cue, the next morning they were on their way out of London on a case.

Holmes resolved the problem with his typical aplomb, though it required an overnight stay in a small inn. The only thing notable about the case in Watson's mind was being woken in the early morning by the sound of Holmes retching. Watson inquired sleepily whether he was well, to which Holmes made some excuse about dinner disagreeing with him; Watson shouldn't have left it at that, and wouldn't have if he were more awake.

Watson tried to argue that they should stay another night and take the extra time to rest -for the case was finished by noon and Holmes looked dead on his feet- but Holmes disagreed, saying that if rest was wanted, he would do so better in his own bed. This made sense, so Watson compromised; they returned to London, and Holmes was to spend the rest of the day and all of the next day resting.

His insistence turned out to be unnecessary; Holmes dozed during the train ride, and he only made it as far as the settee before stretching out and returning to sleep. Watson covered him with a blanket and let him be until dinnertime.

Holmes didn't want to eat anything, but at length consented to have the soup Watson had requested on his behalf. He retreated to his bedroom immediately after the meal. Watson followed a short time later after taking the dinner tray down to Mrs. Hudson, and helped him undress. Both were asleep quite early.

Once again Watson woke to the sound of Holmes throwing up, but this time he was more alert. "You can't blame this on dinner," he said softly, crouching behind Holmes and sliding his arms around Holmes to steady him.

"No," Holmes whispered. "It seems I have picked up a bit of a stomach ailment."

"It's possible. Or you have worked yourself into illness," Watson speculated.

"In either case, I shan't argue about resting. I feel like I could sleep for days."

* * *

In the end, it took nearly a fortnight before Holmes was feeling more himself, though he was still pale, he tired easily, and his eating was erratic. Still, Watson was happy to see any improvement, even if it meant Holmes was back at the chemical table, muttering to himself and clinking the glassware as he shifted things here and there, to and fro, as he pondered. Finally he seemed to come to a decision and started mixing.

Watson watched him work and did his own pondering. There was something bothering him about everything that had been going on, but he simply couldn't put his finger on it. Finally he started writing it all down, the lightheadedness, the fatigue, the nausea, and still drew no new conclusions.

The new solution was ready, and Holmes expounded eagerly over breakfast why he thought this time he finally had it. Watson nodded at appropriate intervals, but his mind was miles away until he recalled the predicament: Holmes was, at present, a woman. A woman. Now the pieces fell neatly into place.

He pulled himself out of his reverie to see Holmes in front of his apparatus, carefully pouring out a measure of the new solution. "Holmes, don't!" he cried, rising hurriedly from the table to cross the room and grasp his wrists.

"Watson? I thought we wanted . . ?" He was quite confused.

"Yes, but . . . not right now." Watson released one of Holmes' wrists and dragged his fingers through his hair. "Holmes, I think you're pregnant," he said meekly, unable to look Holmes in the eye.

"B-beg pardon?" He swayed, and Watson took the flask and glass from him and guided him to sit on the settee.

"Your fatigue, your illness . . . it fits perfectly. Of course, the most reliable sign is the absence of menstruation, but you never had menses -which was probably best, for both our sakes- so we have to rely on the less unique symptoms. I'm sorry, I've been terribly blind not to have realized before, but I'm not used to thinking of you as a woman, not to mention this is not my area of expertise, and Mary and I never had it come up," Watson said in a rush, knowing he was babbling but unable to stop himself.

"But the explanation could just as easily be exhaustion and a stomach flu," Holmes said.

"Well, yes."

"How can we know for certain?"

"Without involving a doctor that specializes in such matters? At least a month, perhaps more."

"What would happen in that time?"

"The child will have grown sufficiently that your abdomen will start to protrude."

"If we assume you are correct -which I'm not- what would occur if I were to drink the solution right now?"

"I don't know for certain, but my educated guess is that the child will be lost, most likely with a fair amount of bleeding. How that might affect the transition, I cannot even begin to guess."

Holmes sat perfectly still, staring vacantly as he tried to comprehend this sudden turn in their fortunes. Watson held Holmes' hand in both of his, he too having difficulty accepting the monumental news.

"You are fairly certain?" Holmes asked finally.

"That you're pregnant? As certain as I can be without any firm proof either way."

"Hmm." He pulled away from Watson and stood. "Excuse me, I need to think alone for a while."

* * *

Once over the shock, Watson was delighted at the idea of having a child with Holmes. He'd always enjoyed having small ones underfoot, and he just knew Holmes would turn out to be an excellent father. . . mother . . . parent. The only trouble was persuading Holmes to take better care of himself until the child was born.

Holmes was more ambivalent about the situation. At times he mirrored Watson's joy at the prospect of being a parent, but at other times he was horrified at the idea of some thing growing inside him without his permission. He also vacillated on whether he thought Watson was right or not, though Watson did have better judgment in such matters than him. He'd been right that taking the solution was a bad idea, after all.

They didn't talk about it much, not yet. They went on pretending that everything was as it should be, though Watson didn't allow many visitors and had Mrs. Hudson carefully interrogate each caller. She thought Mr. Holmes was still recovering from a nasty stomach flu, and Watson didn't correct her. Holmes tolerated their fussing better than was typical for him, which Mrs. Hudson took as a sign that he was indeed under the weather. It was the truth, to a point.

Sometimes Watson noticed Holmes staring at the flask of greenish liquid, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his face grave. It was the same way he used to stare at his cocaine bottle, when the desire to take it warred with the knowledge of Watson's displeasure if he did. Watson didn't interfere.

.

It was late, but neither Holmes nor Watson was asleep. Holmes was perched near the far edge of the bed, his back to the room. Watson lay curled against him, his arms around Holmes, one hand pressed against his ribcage while the other idly stroked Holmes' stomach. "If you were in my place, what would you do?" Holmes asked quietly.

"I wouldn't have taken the solution," Watson replied lightly, kissing his shoulder.

Holmes sighed in aggravation. "If you had, with these results. What would be your reaction? Would you believe it?"

"Well . . ." Watson started, trying to buy time to think. He'd been doing some reading in the fortnight since he'd diagnosed the pregnancy; there had to be something he'd read that would help soothe Holmes.

His hand on Holmes' stomach strayed downward and he pressed carefully. If the timing was right, and if he was remembering correctly . . . "Put your hand here," he directed, and guided Holmes' long fingers to feel a small lump. "There's your proof."

"Wh-what is it?" Holmes asked, sounding panicked. He was familiar enough with his own anatomy to recognize it as foreign.

"The child. You're thin enough to feel it now, though it is still very small." He fell silent, waiting until some of the tension had left Holmes before he continued. "As for how I would feel . . . surprised, anxious, terrified, overwhelmed, and, eventually, pleased that I could have a child with the one I love."

"I think you give yourself too much credit, Watson. Though I do appreciate the sentiment," Holmes said dryly.

"You'll see that I'm right," Watson said confidently. "But since it's you, I'd bet that you set out to prove me wrong."

Holmes chuckled and kissed the back of Watson's hand. "We'll see. Good night."

Watson wasn't sure how to interpret the conversation, but he was greatly encouraged by Holmes placing their hands back over the area where the child lay.

* * *

The nighttime conversation somehow lifted a tension that Watson didn't notice until it was gone. While Holmes still suffered the symptoms of his condition -particularly fatigue and a poor appetite- he seemed in better spirits, and was more apt to allow Watson to comfort him when his mood dipped rather than retreating to the bedroom and locking the door.

Watson decided an outing was in order, and procured a box at the symphony, not particularly caring what was playing, but pleased when it was something German. Holmes would no doubt enjoy it and that was well worth the headache Watson would develop in the process.

Holmes did enjoy it, and expressed his appreciation when they returned home. Watson could only laugh when Holmes stopped short after they'd both undressed and asked if it was safe. "Perfectly safe," he assured him, amused and touched that he was concerned.

Watson was shaken awake several hours later, and was startled to hear fear in Holmes' voice, though his words were spilling out so fast he could hardly understand them. "Watson? Are you awake? Watson? I'm bleeding. Watson?"

"I'm awake, I'm awake," Watson said. "Take a deep breath and tell me slowly what's wrong."

"It seems that I am bleeding," Holmes replied evenly after taking a quick breath. "I thought you said it was safe."

"It is," Watson replied absently as he struck a match and lit the lamp so he could see the extent of the bleeding.

"Then why is this happening?" Holmes demanded.

"I don't know, sometimes it just does." Watson moved the lamp and shifted to see better, trying not to let his growing dread show on his face when he realized that what he thought was a shadow was a pool of blood.

"Watson?" Holmes asked nervously, worried by his silence.

"Lie down, Holmes, and I'll go get some towels," he said. Watson took the lamp with him, not wanting Holmes to obsess over how much blood there was, and stumbled to the bathing room to grab as many towels as he could find. He tried to reassure himself that it looked worse than it was, that the amount of blood wasn't that unlike what made it onto the sheets when Mary started menstruating sooner than she had expected, but his gut was frantic over the fact that this was Holmes and that the amount of blood could only mean the loss of the child and he didn't know how Holmes' body would handle this new strain.

For all the time he'd spent coming to terms with Holmes' condition, he'd thought very little about the actual mechanics of Holmes being pregnant, even giving birth. He expected to have more time to get to that part, but now Holmes was miscarrying and he didn't know what to expect, much less what to tell Holmes.

He hurried back to the bedroom and turned up the gas so he could put down the lamp and still see. Holmes was lying where Watson had left him, so Watson helped him move over to the other side of the bed and lie atop a folded towel so Watson could start pulling off the bloodied sheets.

"What's happening?" Holmes asked, pale with fatigue and worry. "Is it serious?"

"I think you're miscarrying," Watson said. "How do you feel?"

"A little dizzy," Holmes admitted. "And my stomach aches."

"Where, here?" Watson laid his hand lightly against Holmes' lower abdomen. Holmes nodded. "Take deep breaths, and let me see how bad the bleeding is."

Watson washed his hands and wetted a cloth to wipe away what he could of the blood that had dried on Holmes' skin. It looked like the flow had slowed to a trickle, which was reassuring, but it must have been considerable earlier to leave such a stain. "I think the worst may be over. How does a bath sound?"

Holmes agreed to a bath, so Watson got the water running, then helped him stagger there; he was trembling and unsteady on his feet, so Watson held him upright with an arm around his waist until they reached the steaming tub. Leaving Holmes to soak for a while, Watson returned to the bedroom to strip the bed and see what could be done about the blood on the mattress.

He patted up as much as possible with a towel, but had no idea what to do about the rest. There were other stains on the mattress, so it probably didn't matter. Or so he hoped. Mrs. Hudson would kill them both if she saw it, though. But he wasn't going to wake her at this time of night, and really didn't want to try to explain what was going on with Holmes, so he threw a towel over the spot to collect what it could, and put new sheets on.

Holmes was curled up in the bath, the water a faint pink, when Watson returned. "Watson, it hurts," he said pleadingly.

"I'm sorry. Would more hot water help?"

"It didn't before."

Watson ran his fingers down Holmes' cheek and sighed. "All right. I'll be right back." He prepared the smallest dose of morphine he thought would be effective and administered it with steady hands.

Getting Holmes back to the bedroom was a challenge, but Watson didn't want him bleeding all over the settee as well, so they made their awkward way to the bed. Holmes was asleep -or unconscious- as soon as he was horizontal; Watson joined him after he wrote a short note to Mrs. Hudson to the effect that Holmes had taken ill during the night and not to disturb them, and that Watson would let her know when they needed anything.

Then, and only then, could he try to rest.

If any rest was to be had, for he was terribly worried.

* * *

Holmes remained abed for three days, the bleeding periodically heavy or light but never stopping entirely. Watson tried to keep him comfortable, administering small doses of morphine occasionally, and occasionally changing the towel underneath Holmes. At some point Holmes asked if it would help to take the reversal solution; Watson didn't think so, but they couldn't know for sure.

Starting on the fourth day, Holmes rose for brief periods of time and sat on the settee or in his armchair, the bleeding kept in check by a bandage held in place with long strips of cloth. It seemed to work well enough, though resolving that dilemma made Watson wish he'd paid more attention to how Mary handled such things. Holmes was quiet and withdrawn, and Watson tried to comfort him with his presence and touch rather than words. He sat near him in the sitting room, often lay with him in the bed, and let Holmes cling to and clutch at him when he needed to.

It was his nearness that alerted him to the first signs of fever. Holmes had been bleeding for just over a week when Watson noticed he felt warmer than usual, and his heart sank. He knew Holmes was quite weak, could feel it in the trembling of his limbs when helping him stand, could see it in his ashen skin, and he was afraid.

He had Holmes stay abed that day, and tried to forestall the fever's development with cool cloths on his brow. Holmes quirked a smile at his fussing and caught one of his hands, pressing it between his. "Poor Watson," he said. "I make the mistakes and you suffer for them."

"Nonsense," Watson said, and tried to pull his hand away.

"Will you let me drink the solution now? If I'm going to die, I'd rather they not see me like this."

Watson froze. "Who said you're going to die?" He couldn't say it above a whisper.

"Your face did." Holmes reached up to skim his fingers over Watson's cheek, and Watson couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch. "You know you can't lie to me."

"I don't know what you think you saw in my expression, but you are not going to die," Watson said fiercely.

Holmes smiled sadly. "Come here and keep me company," he said, patting the bed. Watson obeyed.

Lucid moments were few and far between for Holmes after that afternoon, the fever having a firmer grip than his consciousness did. Watson tended him as well as he was able, and allowed Mrs. Hudson to help so he could sleep at least a little, but he hated to be away from Holmes. Holmes' comment about dying continued to haunt him, and he superstitiously feared that it might happen if he was away from Holmes' bedside for too long.

Holmes was indeed slipping away. In addition to the bleeding and the fever, his lower abdomen was rigid to the touch and Watson knew the infection stemmed from the womb Holmes wasn't supposed to have. He also knew it would kill him, given enough time.

Now the suggestion of transforming back to his previous form held promise, for if the womb were gone, mightn't he improve? Or would the illness spread throughout his body as a result? There was no way to know without trying.

"Will we try it, then?" Holmes' weary voice broke into his thoughts.

"I would ask how you knew what I was thinking about, but you've done it so many times I'm used to it," Watson grumbled. He kissed him, then left his head next to Holmes' on the pillow. "I think so, yes. It might help."

Holmes tugged on his arm until Watson moved from the chair to the bed, then Holmes wrapped his arms around him. "You know I'm willing to try it," he said.

Watson tried not to notice the heat radiating from Holmes' body, the sweat standing on his brow, so he could lose himself in the feeling of being held. And he hesitated for a moment, but the longer they waited the weaker Holmes became. "Tonight, then. After Mrs. Hudson goes to bed."

Holmes nodded, his grip already loosening as he reached the limits of his energy. "Stay with me?" he asked.

Watson held Holmes tightly in response, and managed to hold back the tears until Holmes had fallen asleep. Stay? As if he would willingly go anywhere else when his time with Holmes was so quickly slipping through his fingers.

Night arrived all too quickly, and it was with great reluctance that Watson rose from Holmes' bed and fetched the flask. He roused Holmes, who had enough awareness to tell him how much to pour into a glass. Before he would give it to Holmes, though, he kissed him and murmured a few things that he wanted to make sure Holmes heard. Just in case.

Holmes tried to reassure him in turn, his disdain for Watson's romantic tendencies limited only to literature and not to life. Then he drank and they waited, Watson lying next to him and their clasped hands on his chest.

Watson felt Holmes shudder, then grip his hand tightly, groaning in pain. "Talk to me, Holmes," he demanded.

Holmes squeezed his hand but couldn't speak, his eyes tightly shut, a single tear escaping and running into his sweat-soaked hair. At length he gasped, "I'm sorry, Watson. For everything."

Watson brushed Holmes' hair back from his forehead and watched anxiously, meeting Holmes' gaze when his eyes opened. He didn't look away until Holmes' eyes closed again and his breathing slowed, then stopped. Watson clutched his hand and wept.

It took the better part of ten minutes to regain his control, at which point he straightened and forced his attention to business. His shoulders slumped in relief when he found that Holmes had successfully returned to his male form before his death. Holmes' wish was fulfilled, and it would be one less thing to explain at the inquest. Watson carefully removed everything that had any trace of blood on it and hid it all in the wardrobe. He would burn it later.

The practicalities taken care of, it was time to summon reinforcements. He bent and pressed a kiss to Holmes' hot forehead, feeling his tears begin again, and hurried from the room, calling for Mrs. Hudson.


End file.
